The Saracen: Land of the Infidel by Robert Shea (read novel full txt) 📕

He dangled the locket by its chain before Sordello's face, letting it swing from side to side. He held the candle so its flame reflected from the silver disk.

"Watch the locket, Sordello. Look closely at it. The design on its face is like no other in the world. Make certain that you would know it if you saw it again."

For a time he let the locket swing, and Sordello's head turned from side to side, following it.

"Do you know this locket now, Sordello? Truly know it?"

"Yes, Maestro."

"Could you mistake it for another?"

"No, Maestro."

"Good. Now I command you. When you see this locket again, it will be a sign. It will mean that you are to kill Simon de Gobignon at once. As soon as you see the locket, you will take up the first[370] weapon that comes to hand, and you will await your first good chance, and you will strike him down. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Maestro."

"Will you do it?"

"Yes, Maestro. With much joy."

"Say what you will do, Sordello."

"When I see that locket, I will kill Simon de Gobignon at once."

"That is good. Now, in a little while you will wake up. And you will not remember anything I have said to you about the locket and about killing Simon de Gobignon. You will forget all about it until you see the locket again. And then you will strike."

"Yes, Maestro."

Daoud went back to the throne and sat down. He slipped the locket's chain over his head and dropped the silver disk back inside his tunic. Sordello slumped in his kneeling posture like a figure of wax that had been placed too close to a fire.

Daoud waited patiently, and in a few moments Sordello raised his head, his eyes bloodshot but alert.

"Will you let me visit paradise again soon?" His memory had gone back to the moment before he drank the drug.

"Not very soon," said Daoud. "But serve me well, and it will happen again." He could not make Sordello wait a year, as the Hashishiyya usually did with their initiates. But it must be a wait of some months, or the experience would lose its magic. And in months his work in Orvieto might be done.

And then again, I might still be here ten years from now.

"Tell me what I have to do, Maestro."

"Serve me faithfully, and from time to time, when it pleases me, you will visit paradise. Disobey me or betray me—we will know instantly if you do—and when you least expect it you will find yourself in hell. Not the one we created for you last night. The real one."

"You don't need to threaten me," said Sordello with a flash of his old rebelliousness. "Just tell me what you want."

"Simply go on doing what you have been doing. You will give the Count de Gobignon information about us—but from now on we will tell you what to tell him. And you will keep me informed about the young count. Hardly any work at all, you see."

Sordello grunted. "I doubt it will be that easy. But as long as you offer a reward so great, I am your man."[371]

My slave, thought Daoud, hoping that his pity for this creature did not show in his face.

But he must remember that there were hidden places in this man's soul. And he had never before tried to enslave a man as the Hashishiyya did it. He could not be sure that he had succeeded fully, and so he had made a creature potentially as dangerous to himself as to anyone else. The flesh on the back of his neck crawled.

She was sitting by the window, staring out at the spot on the street where the young man's body had lain. She heard the door open behind her. She turned, and there was David. Golden-haired, lean, tall, with those light-filled eyes. She forgot herself and felt a leap of love, and then her heart clenched like a fist with anger.

Wait, let him tell it before I judge him.

He closed the door slowly, a strange expression on his face. She looked from him to the image of the saint. Yes. The look around the eyes was the same. They had accepted pain and sorrow, did not struggle against it as ordinary people did, and they knew something.

Except that David's eyes were not the bright blue of the saint's. David's eyes seemed to reflect whatever color was about him.

How could it be that the icon she had painted could remind her of two such different men as Simon de Gobignon and David of Trebizond?

He stood there looking at her, and she realized that he was waiting for her to speak. He wanted to know what she and Simon had done in this room, and he did not want to ask. And she knew at that instant, watching his face, that he was expecting to be hurt by what she would tell him about herself and Simon.

But what about that young Frenchman in the street? I saw Simon kneel by him, weep for him, bear him away.

"Something terrible has happened," she said.

His eyes narrowed. "You did not succeed with de Gobignon?"

"No, someone killed his friend, who was waiting for him, down there in the street. Everything is ruined. Simon will not want to see me again. He will be certain to blame me for that young man's death."

"Why should he?" David walked over to the chest, where the enameled candlesticks on either side of the painting of the saint still held burnt-out stumps of candles. He sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the chest. He rested his forearms on his knees and[372] his gaze on the flame and azure carpet. There were deep lines in his face. He looked as if he had not slept all last night.

His face in front of the saint's face. Looking from one to the other, Sophia saw the resemblance more plainly than ever.

She sighed and spoke with elaborate patience. "What else can Simon think but that his friend was killed by some overzealous protector of mine?"

"Why would a protector kill a man standing in the street when there is another man up in the bedroom with the woman he is supposed to protect?" There was something in the harshness of his gaze, a flatness in his steel-colored eyes, that told her beyond the possibility of doubt that it was he who had killed Simon's young companion.

But had he not been at Tilia's house all night?

She nodded her head slowly. "Simon will probably think that way, too."

From his seat on the floor, David looked up at her with a hard smile. "And, since I am certain you gave him incomparable pleasure in bed, he will overcome any objections he has to seeing you again."

She felt as if he had stamped on her heart. To him she was nothing but a harlot to be used to ensnare his enemies.

And if that was all he thought she was, how could she find it possible to think any better of herself?

If I am not a whore, what am I?

But she would tell him the truth whether or not he chose to believe it.

"Nothing happened between us," she said tonelessly.

He stared at the carpet. She saw hope struggling with doubt in his face.

Doubt won. His smile was cynical.

"You failed to seduce him? I cannot believe that."

"Whatever you may believe, that was how it was."

"Why do you bother to lie to me?" Anger smoldered in his face. His cheeks were reddening.

"Why would I lie to you? It would make no difference to you if I went to bed with Simon."

"If, as you say, nothing happened, then explain to me why it did not." He folded his arms and sat hunched forward.

"When a man like Simon is in love—" she said, and stopped. "You do understand what I mean by love?" How did a man brought[373] up in Egypt as a slave to Turks feel about women? Saracens, she knew, kept their many wives locked up most of the time.

Daoud shrugged. "I can only guess at what you mean by love."

"A man like Simon shows his love by holding back his ardor. He does not realize that I know this. I have let him think he is teaching me about courtly love."

"And what did you learn by letting him woo you in this courtly way?" He looked pleased. He was beginning to believe her.

"He tried to find out things from me. He is such an innocent. He had no idea that I was telling him what you told me to tell him."

David sighed, stood up, and walked to the window. She could see the tension in his back. How broad his shoulders were. Not huge, like those of some knights, but graceful and powerful. His posture was not just erect; it was perfect, straight yet flexible, like a blade of the finest steel. She imagined him with his shirt off. The palms of her hands tingled at the thought of stroking his shoulders.

"Did you not want to take him into your bed?" His voice was cold.

She thought back to her night with Simon. During those hours when she had been Sophia Orfali, she had been disappointed when Simon insisted that he would not touch her. But Sophia Orfali had to accept his judgment.

Earlier, she had wanted to take Simon to bed as a kind of revenge on David for letting Rachel be used by the Tartar. But last night she had let Simon decide what they would do. When she was with Simon, she was what Simon wanted her to be.

Is that what I am, a woman who becomes whatever the man she is with wishes?

She expelled her breath in a short, sharp sigh.

"I wanted to do whatever was necessary. If it had been necessary to make love to him, I would have done it."

She shut her eyes momentarily. Her head spun. Now, with David here, she wanted David, not Simon. And she hated herself for wanting him, when he saw her as no more than a useful object, as Manfred had.

If only Alexis had lived. These loves I feel for men, for Manfred, for Simon, for David. I cannot help myself, and it betrays me. It divides me against myself. And they do not return my love.

And yet, she was sure David did care for her, perhaps even loved her, though he would never admit it. Why else this jealous questioning?[374]

That might even have been why he killed Simon's friend!

The thought made her heart stop beating for an instant and her body turn cold. Killing Simon would have upset David's plans, but he might have taken out his jealous rage on Simon's friend.

"But what did you want to do with de Gobignon?" he demanded, turning from the window.

He would not let it alone. She slid off the bed and got to her feet. She went to the chest and stood with her back to David, staring at the picture of the saint. Anger clouded over her vision so that she could not see the painting. She clasped her hands together to control their trembling.

"I do not have to tell you that," she said in a choked voice. "It does not matter. I do what is necessary."

"As I do!" There was a snarl in his voice.

What did he mean by that, she wondered. She turned and the look she saw on his face made her stomach knot itself. His teeth were bared and his eyes were narrowed to glowing slits.

Now she had to hear him say it. "Did you kill that boy?"

She watched him slowly regain command of himself. Calm returned to the hard, tan features. His eyes held hers, and their color seemed to change from white-hot to the cold gray of iron.

"Of course."

She felt something break inside her. Grief overwhelmed her. She mourned for the young Frenchman. She did not know the man David had killed, but she imagined him to be just like Simon. She wept for him and for Simon. And for David. She did not want to cry, but she could not help herself. She walked slowly to her bed and sat down heavily. She could feel the tears running down her cheeks.

"Why did you kill him?"

"I had to leave Tilia's. I made the mistake of coming back here. From across the street I saw de Gobignon in this window." His voice was tight, his words clipped, as if he were trying to hold something in. "At the same time, the Frank, who was on watch, saw me. If I had allowed him to live, de Gobignon would have known that I approved of his being with you. And he